


hebrus

by Hope



Category: 21 Jump Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-15
Updated: 2005-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>season 2; set immediately post-<i>orpheus 3.3</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hebrus

when tom wakes up his mind is as blank as a piece of paper. the room around him is dark and close, air dragging heavily through his open mouth and dry lips, eyes sticking gummily when he blinks, scraping like sand when he turns them. at first he's not sure he's awake. it's been a while since he's woken up like this. he's forgotten what it feels like.

faint light from outside seeps around the gaps around the drapes. the blankets are heavy over his body. he tries to shift and a dull ache presses bruising fingers into his arm. he sucks in a rapid breath, surprised, and it shudders down his throat, clinging to the edges of it, making him choke abruptly.

the debris making up the edges of the room are sketched into place suddenly as the door cracks open, and tom squeezes his eyes shut. the world - or the mattress, at least - quakes and shifts alarmingly, tilting down towards tom's side.

something cool touches the edge of his wrist. "hey," voice soft, but tom's jaw tightens and ears cringe at the sudden break in the thick silence. he squints his eyes open, attempts to close his mouth. "drink this." doug slides the glass down into his hand. his grip imprints on the soft flesh beneath tom's arm as he responds to tom's failed attempts at sitting and hauls him semi-upright.

the water tastes sweet, but he has to wash down several mouthfuls of it before the claggy, sour flavour caked onto his tongue has washed away to settle sickeningly in his belly instead.

_where am i?_ he thinks, but asks, "what happened?"

doug's voice is still so quiet, smooth in comparison to tom's croak. he huffs softly. "nothing happened. well, nothing recent, anyway. you just took a particularly severe hit of painkillers is all." he takes the glass from tom's limp grip, setting it carefully amidst the chaos of tom's night-table. "you've been out all day. how're you feeling?"

tom closes his eyes again, swallows one last time. "like i've been torn to pieces."

doug makes another small noise of amusement. "yeah, they do leave you a bit like that, don't they? don't worry, soon you'll have control of all your respective body parts again." he pauses. "how's the arm feel?"

tom half-shrugs, then squeezes his eyes a little tighter at the response from the limb in question that causes, his mouth curling a little; not sure if he's about to be sick or smile. "like i've been shot."

"figures." doug heaves somewhat more gently on tom's forearm as tom struggles again to achieve a more upright position, finally managing to prop himself against the headboard of his bed. doug watches in silence as he tilts his head, the movement the epitome of lethargy, and takes slow stock of his surroundings.

"is it over, then," he doesn't turn back to doug to ask, though his voice drops on a note too heavy to be classified as a question. he's awake enough now that he can see each tiny mote of dust spin in slow motion through the blades of light cut by the curtains. it looks as if the entire contents of his wardrobe are piled on the floor, excepting what he's wearing, of course. which, gauging by the way his suddenly-aware skin tightens and scratches away from them, he's been wearing for some time.

"shouldn't i be the one asking you that?"

and he still doesn't turn back to doug, maybe the after-effects of the drug and the sleep buffing down his reflexes, maybe something else. his neck aches where it's bent; his head where it's pressed against the headboard, his arm, his chest. his body feels like an empty vessel, the world stopped and silent except for this room; doug's soft voice the most real thing in the universe right now and tom wants to line his insides with it, fill him up until his flesh is taut, limbs outspread and stuffed like a scarecrow. he closes his eyes again.

"well, you were the one who decided last time." he's surprised his voice still works, surprised it still comes out as a gravelled croak instead of a scraping echo.

"what--?" doug cuts himself off, and his breathing is loud in the close space. "tom," the sudden stopping of his voice sounding more physical than voluntary this time.

"it didn't hurt 'til now," and tom finds he is actually looking at doug, now, the way doug's eyes kind of slit like he's wincing, the way doug's brows settle down and his mouth goes very soft and still. tom closes his eyes, swallows. "my arm, i mean. i didn't notice it 'til now."

"you were pretty out of it," doug's voice softer than before. tom doesn't answer.

"can't we just," and he has to ask, vast brown darkness behind his eyelids pressing in and pushing him onward, "it's over. it never happened. it's--"

doug's hand a band burning around his wrist. "that isn't going to bring her back."

"maybe i don't want her back," and the harshness of his tone surprises even him, but he can't stop now, heart pounding like he's run miles to get to this point. "i just don't--" and he's not going to close his eyes again, he's going to watch doug's face, the way his jaw tightens and his eyes flit over tom's. "--don't want her in the first place." doug doesn't move, doesn't even blink.

"it's a bit late for that, now," each word clearly enunciated, like he's spelling it out very gently and carefully to some kid in grade school who needs to learn the facts of life. something stoppers tom's throat, makes it very hard to breath or speak or say exactly what it is that he means.

"i'm sorry," because there's nothing else he can say right now and maybe that worked for doug before or maybe it should have worked but tom was too stubborn or hot-headed to hear it, to see it, and thirteen weeks have gone by in the blink of an eye and he hasn't had time to do anything except for everything he hasn't done. "i just want--"

"hey," doug's mouth tilts up into a smile, his grip around tom's wrist like a handcuff. and, like it's the most obvious thing in the world; "i'm right here."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/30442.html


End file.
